


A Pair of Scoundrels

by gosshawks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: All That Remains, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-All That Remains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 09:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14973935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gosshawks/pseuds/gosshawks
Summary: Varric goes to the estate to comfort a grieving Hawke after Leandra's death. Neither of them are very good with sincerity.[After "All That Remains"]





	A Pair of Scoundrels

Varric Tethras paced outside the Hawke estate, a bottle of very fine wine in his hand. He considered his options. It wasn’t his place, probably. Almost definitely. He and Hawke were…drinking buddies, fire-forged friends of convenience. They traded barbs, stories, covered each others’ tabs at the Hanged Man and watched each others’ backs. She kept him alive in battle and he greased what palms needed to be greased to keep the Templars off her scent. 

Well, all right, maybe it was a little more than that. 

But even after clawing out of the Deep Roads together and fighting with her every day since, he still wasn’t sure what she’d accept from him. How she’d take an offer of comfort. She could shoulder the problems of eight misfits and the rest of Kirkwall besides with a strong back and kind words and a grin but she almost never spoke of her own.

She wouldn’t talk to him, but he couldn’t leave her. Not tonight.

In his head he just kept seeing her from behind, sitting and shaking and holding what was left of her mother in her arms. She’d stayed with her like that until Aveline had returned with Sisters and Templars from the Chantry to prepare her for burial, and then she’d released her, stood, and left without a word.

Varric knocked.

After a moment he heard someone on the other side of the door stumble, the sound of glass falling and shattering on the stone floor, and a muffled swear. A moment later the door opened, warm candlelight spilling out into the Hightown street, and Hawke appeared. Her silhouette loomed over him. She was tall, even for a human, and his conservative guess was that she was about 80% leg. Her boots were freshly splashed with what looked like wine. Her eyes were red and cloudy, and she seemed to have smeared the bloody warpaint from nose to ear while wiping her eyes. 

“Varric?” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

He offered the bottle, giving her a tired grin. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood. Looks like I have good timing.” She blinked, looking blearily between the bottle and her wet boots, and gave a weak laugh.

“And good instincts,” she said, opening the door wider so he could come in. “Especially when it comes to whether I needed more wine.” 

“Well you know me, Longshanks. I think everyone could use more wine,” he said, walking inside. He sidestepped the broken bottle carefully as they walked into the main room. She flopped onto the settee gratefully, uncorked the bottle with her teeth, and took a deep drink. 

“Mm!” she said, wiping her mouth. “You brought me _good_ wine?” 

“I always bring you good wine,” Varric huffed. “But you’re picky.” 

“I’m glad I didn’t throw it against the wall, then. It seems to make Fenris feel better, so I’d thought about trying it.” 

He shook his head, smiling. “Your uncle ought to have a couple of bottles of something shit in the wine cellar, if you’d still like to. But I spent good gold on that, if you wasted it I think I’d cry.” 

“Can’t have that,” said Hawke, in a voice that was softer than he had expected. She offered him the bottle, and he took a swig. It was good. Damn, but he had taste. 

They sat together awhile, trading drinks and occasionally some comment about nothing in particular. The tragedy seemed to stretch like a gulf between them, a wound too wide and fresh to cross yet. Varric found himself glancing over at her as often as he dared. 

She caught him, of course, and raised her eyebrows questioningly. He watched her, frowning. 

“Are you…?”

She had another drink from the bottle and cut him off. “Look, we both know what’s just happened. We were both there.” Varric nodded, abashed, and she looked straight ahead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it felt like the most inadequate thing to ever come out of his mouth. 

Looking down at her hands, she picked at her nails. “…So am I.” 

“Hawke…” Varric started, but she shook her head and he trailed off again.

More silence, more drinking. Eventually she seemed to have trouble sitting upright and began to sway in her seat. 

Slowly Hawke drifted sideways and laid down, coming to rest with her cheek against his knee, her laughably long legs pulled up onto the sofa. She didn’t look at him, didn’t move, didn’t speak. Hawke just watched the fire and settled, and he couldn’t fathom what she was waiting for, if she was waiting, if she’d just wanted to lie down but hadn’t bothered to ask him to move. 

It was ridiculous, and if Varric were writing it himself it would have sounded so silly he would have cut it, but his chest was so tight he couldn’t speak. He sat stone still and even if he had had some idea of what he was supposed to do now his brain was in too much disarray to reach it. His thoughts were a manuscript all out of order, pages retrieved haphazardly after being tossed to the wind. Smudged and dirtied sentimental nonsense.

Stutteringly, he laid a hand on her head and smoothed back her hair. It was soft, but he didn’t quite let himself think that. 

Hawke seemed to relax at that. She closed her eyes, and after some minutes he thought she must have fallen asleep. Varric began the delicate, arduous process of extricating himself without waking her, but as he stood she took him by the hand. 

“Stay,” she murmured. 

“I-…I’ll help you up to bed,” managed Varric, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth. Hawke squinted at him in annoyance, then nodded.

“All right,” she said, and he offered him her hand. She grasped his wrist, and he hers, and with some effort he pulled her to her feet. Hawke teetered dangerously, and he did his best to keep her upright.

“Whoa, whoa, careful, Longshanks. If I tried carrying you you’d be touching the ground on both ends. That won’t work,” he said. It was only a slight exaggeration: Carver couldn’t have been more than a few inches taller.  

“Maybe if you carried me on your back,” Hawke slurred, and he gave a sharp laugh. The smile she gave was blink-and-you-miss-it and didn’t reach her eyes, but under the circumstances he considered it a success. Varric opened the bedroom door for her with a flourishing bow. 

“I leave you here, Messere Hawke,” he said.

“ _Stay_ ,” she said again in a low voice, her breath brushing past his ear. The warmth of it made him shiver. _Son of a bitch._

“Hawke—” he said in a warning voice. She buried her face in his shoulder, half-slumped over him. 

“I don’t want to be alone.” He could hardly hear her, her voice was so quiet. “I can’t be alone here. There’s this big house and my mother and my brother and my sister and my father should be here too but there’s just me—” 

 _…Oh._  

When Bartrand had died, she’d sat with him in Hightown on a chilly night, trading sips of some awful but warming cinnamon whiskey and playing cards before their fingers went numb and they finally retreated to the Hanged Man. She talked to him for hours then, making sure he wasn’t alone. That he didn’t feel alone.

Bartrand hadn’t been his brother anymore when he’d killed him, really, but he was still enough of his brother for it to hurt. It just felt like he’d died twice. He wondered if she felt the same way about Leandra. 

In killing Quentin, she’d killed her mother. Or the thing that was still enough of her mother for it to hurt.

 _Bethany died because I wasn’t fast enough, strong enough_ , she’d said bitterly not long after they’d met. _You would have liked her_. She blamed herself for Carver joining the Templars, and to her he was as good as dead. Even now her uncle was mostly a stranger to her. Her father had died. Hawke had lost every tie she’d had to family, to Ferelden, to home.

They’d both been set adrift. All they had was this city and their ragtag group of miscreants and each other.

Wrapping an arm around her, Varric supported her gently and started to lead her inside. “There’s not enough room for you and me in that bed, Longshanks. I’ll take a catnap in your chair.” 

“But you’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay. When you wake up I’ll be right here,” Varric assured her, helping her sit. He pulled off her boots and hoisted her legs up onto the bed, then sat in the nearby chair. Hawke watched him sleepily, and he watched her in turn. 

“You’re a good friend,” she mumbled. “I hope you know that.”

 _A good friend_. Varric Tethras was many things: a first-class bullshitter, a con man, an opportunist, a killer. He was not dependable or trustworthy. He was, undeniably, a scoundrel. 

And scoundrels might make for good company, but they did not make for good friends. 

“I do,” Varric said. “And you’re very welcome.”

Hawke snorted and rolled onto her other side. But she was smiling. 

“You’re an ass.” 

“Sleep tight, Hawke.”

She mumbled something unintelligible, and after a minute or two Varric heard the slow, even breathing of deep sleep.

He blew out the candles, unceremoniously dumped his boots and coat on the floor, and settled in the armchair.

Maybe he’d gone about it wrong, he thought as he started to drift off. Scoundrels weren’t good for anyone else, but maybe they were perfect for other scoundrels. Maybe they only worked with each other.  

And Hawke might have been a hero, but she was certainly that, too.


End file.
